The Evilest Laptop
by Onezumi Daisuke
Summary: John comes home to find a surprisingly moody Sherlock and the evil cause of distress. Slight relationship between the boys, nothing explicit happens. Fluffy.


~The Evilest Laptop~

A Sherlock fanfiction by Onezumi Daisuke

I do not own Sherlock or anything included therein. I only use it as a sounding board for my warped ideas. I make not profit from writing this, only a little personal joy that I try to share with others.

Reviews are appreciated; tell me what you think, if you want. This one does have them in a relationship, although nothing really happens. So if you really don't like same-sex relationships, you can skip this one, or just kinda ignore that part as your reading and pretend they're friends. Either Way.

Sherlock Holmes sat in his favorite chair, legs drawn up, both feet planted on the seat, glaring at the laptop balanced expertly on his knees.

He'd just wanted to check his blog for comments… And John's blog; no telling who reads that emotional dribble… And maybe look for any news articles about recent deaths… And check the delivery status of his latest specimens shipment… Ok, he really wanted to play a lot on the internet, was that so wrong?

But his laptop was on the other side of the room, on the small table in the corner, and he just couldn't be bothered to walk over there to retrieve it. Not when a perfectly good laptop – John's – was within stretching distance from his chair: on the floor, propped against John's chair to be specific.

But now, instead of doing any of the wonderfully time-wasting web-based actions he'd had in mind, he now sat staring at the blank log-in screen. The little cursor blinked evilly back at him. He could practically hear the maniacal laughter coming from the machine. He would normally have chucked the thing into the wall by now, but since having actually started a romantic relationship with his flat-mate, he's been making more of an effort to keep the sweater-wearing man happy. And that seemed to start with not destroying his belongings while he was out… No matter how evil.

So he sat, fingers tapping rapidly against the plastic wrist-rest. Occasionally he'd ruffle his hand aggressively through his curly hair, as if that would dislodge the necessary information.

He'd never had any trouble hacking into John's computer before. With anyone's really. But now he was really racking his brain trying to come up with the password. John had been changing his password nearly every day for the past week and a half in an attempt to keep Sherlock out. Today it seemed to be working.

He'd tried nearly everything, surely, in near-impossible combinations. John's birthday, parent's names and birthdays, sister's name and birthday, the date he got shot, the date he met Sherlock, his favorite movie, favorite food, the names of every pet Sherlock could remember John ever having mentioned…

He was running out of options.

John Watson practically bounced up the stairs to the flat he shared with his mystery-solving boyfriend. It'd been a very good day at the clinic; everything passed by pleasantly and effortlessly. He was looking forward to making dinner for himself and Sherlock – Lord knows the man is an absolute genius, but he can barely cook well enough to stay alive. John couldn't imagine what the Consulting Detective managed to eat before he moved in.

So, John skipped merrily over the thresh-hold of their flat to freeze mid-step, realizing quickly that not all was well at home. The room was very dark; night had fallen outside, but not a single light was on inside their flat. He could make out the ghostly-pale figure crouched in the chair in roughly the center of the room. Normally ivory-white skin eerily illuminated by the bright blue glow from the computer before him.

"Sherlock… are you alright?" John was pretty sure he'd never seen the man look this off before. Aside from the strange blue light, Sherlock's hair was sticking up at odd angles, as if he'd been pulling at it with his fists. John eased closer, stopping just within reach of the sitting man. Upon closer inspection he could see the man's legs twitching repetitively and he seemed to be grinding his teeth and glaring holes through the machine he held.

"Sherlock," John gently placed his hand on the side of his lover's knee. "C'mon, Sherlock, tell me what's wrong."

"I can't-" Sherlock started before clamping his lips together in a fierce pout. "What'd you change it too?" he ground out through clenched teeth.

"What?" John was at a loss. Sherlock merely gestured angrily at the open computer before him.

"Hm?" John leaned closer. "Oh, that's my computer."

Sherlock just scowled and gestured again – something John took to mean 'Well? Fix it!' John perched himself on the arm of Sherlock's chair and leaned back to see the screen. It was the blank log-in screen, just a blank blue screen with a tiny image of a hot air balloon – the default image – and a white textbox asking for his password.

John blinked several times. "Sherlock, how long have you been trying to figure out my password?"

"Two hours, forty-three minutes," he ground out between his teeth, still staring at the absolutely EVIL, blinking cursor.

John couldn't help but chuckle. "You know your computer is right over there," John pointed to the other device, mostly hidden by papers across the room. "Why didn't you just use it instead of getting so riled up at this one?"

"It's just a PASSWORD!" He slapped his hand against the armrest. "I can ALWAYS get password – especially YOURS!"

John just smiled affectionately. "So you sat here for nearly three hours because you didn't want to admit you couldn't figure out my password?"

Sherlock glared up at the blonde man, but there was little actual anger there, just frustration. "Just enter the password… please," he nearly deadpanned.

"Alright, but you're not going to like it…" John leaned both hands over and typed the code, knowing full well Sherlock was watching his fingers. He supposed it was good enough he'd been able to stump his brilliant lover this one time.

"Palest-Green?" Sherlock seemed astonished, nearly slack-jawed. "What on earth is Palest-Green?"

John giggled, leaning closer to his boyfriend's pouting countenance. "A great number of things, my love: a blade of grass in earliest spring, the fuzzy hairs of a baby caterpillar, but most importantly…" he turned Sherlock gently to face him. "It's the color of your eyes on a rainy afternoon." He placed a soft kiss to the edge of Sherlock's lips and sat back up, his hand gently resting on Sherlock's arm.

After a few moments of stillness Sherlock raised his hand, gently tugging John back down and kissing him fully on the lips, better expressing his gratitude of the sentiment than ever he could have with words.

John couldn't help but smile; Sherlock really could be much sweeter than he ever gave himself credit for. "Alright you," he tapped the pale arm beneath him. "You do whatever it is you were going to earlier, but no getting onto any cases just yet." He gave a stern look as he got up, softened by the smile that still tugged at his lips. "I'm going to fix supper now."

Sherlock watched John head off into the kitchen and start taking foodstuffs out from the fridge and cupboards. After only a few minutes – merely checking his blog – he closed the computer and went to help his lover with what he could for their meal. After all, he wasn't that bad of a cook himself.


End file.
